


The Prisoner Of “Azkaban” (1894)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [137]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Secret Messages, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 17:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11318214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A dying man faces having to watch the inheritance that he had meant from his grandson be stolen by his scheming nephew - so he starts having lemon on his fish!





	The Prisoner Of “Azkaban” (1894)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'Colonel Carruthers, and the Smith-Mortimer succession'.

It was early autumn, and seven glorious months since my life had been turned upside-down – or should I say the right way up? – by Sherlock's return from the dead. Unusually our third Northern case in succession started not in Baker Street, as so may did, but on the border between the West Riding of Yorkshire and the county of Lancashire, to which area we had decamped after a most annoying incident late the previous month. A traction engine coming down Baker Street had lost control when its driver had become distracted for some reason, and had swerved straight the neighbouring house, 221A. Unfortunately the damage was such that structural repair work was also required to both the other parts of old Glendower Mansion, and as this would have made daily life in our rooms somewhat unpleasant, Sherlock had recommended that we decamp elsewhere for a few weeks. It had been a particularly hot and unpleasant summer, so I decided to look at places away from the capital for the month.

My maternal aunt Mrs. Janet Singer had originally lived in the town of Hawick in my mother's home county of Roxburghshire, but had married an American businessman and left for the village of Portsmouth, Lancashire, not long after Sammy and I had quitted Northumberland. The two had lived happily together for some years whilst my uncle had travelled frequently across the wide ocean, before he had died in 'Ninety-One, passing only days before my own date with destiny in his homeland. Uncle Richard's brother Robert Singer had brought his body back to England, and with his home-town of Sioux Falls suffering from both food shortages and the general economic depression, had decided to stay, using his money to set himself and his sister-in-law up at a guest-house (a good quality one that was recommended even in the snooty Bradshaw, even if the name “Bobby's” was a little too American for my tastes). It had seemed an odd choice of place for such an establishment but had proven to be a most excellent one; with the Victorian passion for hill-walking, “Bobby's” was nearly always full, and Sherlock and I had to share a room.

We coped. Somehow.

Mr. Robert Singer was a gruff middle-aged gentleman, who somehow contrived to be even scruffier than Sherlock was in the mornings, a feat I had hitherto considered all but impossible. His accent reminded me of the pain of my recent loss, but I had Sherlock back again, and I could live with that, even if Mr. Singer sometimes looked at the two of us and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'idjits'. Although we were only short train-rides from the towns of Todmorden (which I particularly liked) in one direction and Burnley (rather less so) in the other, we might as well have been on another planet. 

To clarify the 'borderline confusion' over which several of my readers questioned me when this story was originally published, the village of Portsmouth had been in Lancashire until the 1888 Local Government Act, a few years prior to when this story was set. As well as removing most of the exclaves around the generally untidy English county borders, this act shifted the village, which lay at the end of some 'ribbon development' from Todmorden three miles east, into the West Riding of Yorkshire. “Bobby's” was, despite the Portsmouth address, just over the border into Lancashire; oddly the railway station which had 'moved' continued to be called Portsmouth (Lancs.). Only the sound of trains chuffing by reminded us that we were still connected to the rest of civilization.

That and, almost predictably, another case.

+~+~+

It was morning in the Singer household, in the penultimate week of our stay there. I had been reading about a new shop opening in the city owned by two gentlemen called Marks and Spencer – an unusual combination, I had thought – when I became aware that Mr. Singer was frowning over a letter that he had received in the morning post.

“Is something wrong?” I asked courteously.

“Your friend’s stay here may be Providence”, he muttered. “It looks like I might need his services for myself.”

He would say no more, but I guessed that he had approached Sherlock in private not long after we had finished eating. I felt more than a little warm when a maid called at my room, saying that my friend was asking for me. Mr. Robert Singer looked more than a little annoyed at my arrival, and I took that to mean he had unsuccessfully objected to my presence. I took out my notebook and waited.

“The doctor documents _all_ my cases”, Sherlock said, a little pointedly. “Without exception, whomsoever the client may be. Your secrets are safe in his hands, sir.”

My bearded almost-relative looked uncertain, but went forward with his tale.

“Gentlemen”, he said, “some years after I settled here, I made what I had planned to be one last trip across the Atlantic. Bearing in mind the tendency of my own countrymen to reach for a gun at any opportunity, it was somewhat ironic that I faced my only danger upon my return to these shores. There, on the quayside at Liverpool, I found a man abusing his wife most sorely. Words were exchanged between us, there was a scuffle, and he tried to fire a gun at me, but only succeeded in shooting himself. He died soon after; mercifully there were several witnesses and the county police were most efficient, such that after only a short investigation I was cleared of any wrongdoing. Except that, to my shock, the lady declared herself attached to me, of all people!”

He sounded quite indignant at that. I suppressed a smile.

“Howsoever”, he went on, “the lady proved quite charming, and eventually I agreed to accept her hand in marriage. Her name was Miss Caroline Turner, and she haled from Derbyshire. The only slight mar to our happiness was that she had told me, very fairly before I took her hand, that she could never have children. This, I had to admit, was something of a blow, but I made it quite clear that whilst I might hope at some future time to add one boy and one girl unto our family, I would totally respect her wishes as regards adoption, whether those be to decline or to delay. To my joy she wanted to have a boy, and the procedures were in motion when she was tragically taken from us during an outbreak of whooping-cough barely a year after I had married her. Her last request was that I care for the boy that we had so nearly acquired together, and I swore on the Good Book so to do.”

“The boy’s name was Master Roger Bennet, and since I have an honest assessment of my own parenting skills which prevented me from subjecting him to them, I strove to obtain a set of parents for him in lieu of myself and poor Caroline. Joseph and Irene Smith-Mortimer were friends of hers, a most excellent couple, and he grew up well with them, adopting their name and recently attaining his twelfth birthday. He is a fine character, and I have placed a sum of money in the bank for him each Christmas and birthday, to be presented to him on his coming of age. Needless to say, he is as yet unaware of my existence; he will be informed on his twenty-first birthday.”

“You may have read of the Chorley train crash in the paper, at the end of last week. I only learnt this morning that the boy’s parents were amongst the victims. That would have been bad enough, but last month and unbeknownst to me, Joseph’s father Evelyn had died and had bequeathed his considerable estate to him. That estate should, of course, now pass instead to Roger, but his title is being contested by a relative who claims that as the boy is adopted, he cannot inherit.”

“That would depend on the precise wording of the late Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer’s will”, Sherlock said. “Unless it pointedly excluded adopted children, there would not be a bar.”

Mr. Singer sighed heavily.

“Regretfully the man doing the contesting is Colonel Horatio Carruthers, a scoundrel of the first order”, he said. “And worst of all, a scoundrel with deep pockets. I am trying to help the boy, but I cannot match his financial fire-power. I may have to yield simply because of the lawyers’ fees.”

“Ah”, said, Sherlock, “but you do have one advantage that the colonel has not.”

Mr. Singer looked puzzled.

“What is that, sir?” he asked.

“Why, the services of London’s finest consulting detective, of course!” Sherlock exclaimed. 

“If not the most modest!” I added, rather more loudly that I had intended. Mr. Singer chuckled at that, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at me that quite clearly indicated I would be paying for that remark later.

At least, I hoped that it did!

+~+~+

We were once again not that far from Brontë Country, to which I had been lucky enough to visit during our case in Armsworth Castle some six years ago. We called in to Keighley, and managed to find Mr. Neil Stephenson, who as Sherlock had told me, had found the wealth bequeathed to him by his father, and had married his lady from Settle. He was now the proud father of two young boys with a third on the way, and thanked us for all our efforts. I think from the way that Sherlock was looking at me that he was again wondering if I missed not having this – the Victorian ideal of the wife and children in a family home – but I had him instead, which was so much better. And when I told him that in the cab afterwards and followed it up with a kiss, he blushed mightily.

Sherlock had also arranged for a stop in Haworth, and our carriage later took us to the ruins at Top Withens, supposedly the inspiration for Wuthering Heights, though we had to walk some way to see it. Of course, the British weather had to intrude into my enjoyment of a great day out, and the clouds opened when we were halfway back to our carriage. Fortunately a ruined old barn offered at least some protection from the suddenly ferocious weather, and we almost fell over our feet as we hurried inside it. I turned to grin at my friend, but my smile vanished almost immediately when I saw the look on his face. It was positively feral.

“I want you!” he all but snarled. “Now!”

I nodded frantically, but he had got his trousers off in record time and was now palming his impressive cock out into the cold autumn air. I whimpered piteously; hell, I was a man too (I was fairly sure of that with what little remained of my brain), but I always lost all control when I was with Sherlock. He used his smaller but more muscular body to position me on a hay-covered flat surface, and worked me open with impressive speed before thrusting his way inside me.. I could only lie there with my eyes watering, wondering what I had done in a previous life to deserve such bliss. 

“I liked my present”, he muttered into my neck.

For a moment my brain spluttered, but then I remembered that for his fortieth birthday that morning, I had given Sherlock a new study on bees that had just come out, which he had enthused over at the time. 

“But I can always ask for more”, he growled. “I always want more from you, John”

And with that, he thrust his impressive length into me even harder, and for once I actually beat him to orgasm, coming violently as he whispered praises and thanks into my neck before erupting inside of me, shredding my senses such that I was no longer in a cold, almost roofless barn on a Yorkshire moor, but in heaven. I panted hard, then reached up and kissed him tenderly. God, I loved this man! Which was just as well. He had to help me walk back to the carriage. And the ride back was excruciating, made infinitely worse by a certain someone's proud smirk.

All right, all right. He had just cause, but it was still damn annoying!

+~+~+

The following day we had an appointment with Mr. Nehemiah Bradstreet, the lawyer in charge of administering the Smith-Mortimer family estate. We all sat down and he explained the legal situation to us in a speech which, were I to repeat it, would have qualified for a story of its own! To spare the reader, I shall paraphrase.

Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer had, in his final year, suffered from a debilitating illness which, most unhappily, had led to him falling into the clutches of his nephew Colonel Horatio Carruthers, who had moved into the Smith-Mortimer family home and ensconced himself there. The colonel was the son of Mr. Smith-Mortimer's late sister and sole sibling Eustasia, and therefore the next in line to inherit after his son Joseph, and adopted grandson Roger. Mr. Bradstreet had represented several times to his client the importance of clearing up the wording of the estate’s conditions of inheritance, but the colonel himself had always pooh-poohed the idea, stating that only a fool would try to disinherit the boy. Once the old man had passed, however, he proved himself no fool, for he had immediately lodged his own claim. Even before the funeral, the lawyer spluttered indignantly.

The problem was that Colonel Carruthers’ control of his uncle’s household during his last few weeks had been Draconian. Nothing and no-one had been allowed to come in and out, and even Mr. Bradstreet had been prevented from seeing him. The lawyer was all but certain that it had been Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s intention to leave a new will clarifying matters, but his nephew had prevented him from so doing. It once again reminded me of the Armsworth Castle case again, and the dreadful Huffington-Brands who, in that instance, had been outwitted by their elderly relative.

We left the offices and adjourned to a nearby restaurant for luncheon. Mr. Singer was clearly depressed at the morning’s events.

“If I am to make anything of this case”, Sherlock said, “I will need to speak with the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s servants. My instincts tell me that they hold the key to this matter.”

Mr. Singer nodded, and took out a piece of paper which he handed across to Sherlock. 

“The first three are the ones worth pursuing”, he said. “They were all fond of their late master, by all accounts, and were all dismissed upon his death. The fourth, Mr. John Wishaw, was kept on, because he chose to assist Colonel Carruthers in his ambitions.”

“Ambitions that we must endeavour to thwart”, Sherlock said. “The cook, the maid, the butler. We shall start with the heart of the home, the kitchen, and call on Mrs. Olivia Damson.”

+~+~+

The late Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer had lived in Leyland, a small town in central Lancashire. Fortunately for us, two of the staff recommended to us by Mr. Singer had both moved to Manchester in pursuit of work after his death, which meant that we could visit them on the same day. After spending what seemed like an eternity assuring Mrs. Damson’s employer Mrs. Featherstone (a married lady of over sixty who batted her eyelashes at Sherlock in a most unbecoming manner!) that her cook was not a hardened criminal or a secret axe-murderer, the three of us were allowed to descend to talk to her. Sherlock had wisely refrained from telling the lady that we were pursuing a murder investigation, or we would never have got there!

Mrs. Olivia Damson was supervising the cooking of something that smelt absolutely heavenly. She took us into a small side-room, and sat calmly waiting for our questions.

“This concerns your late employer, Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer”, Sherlock began. “In particular, his relationship with his nephew, Colonel Horatio Carruthers.”

Mrs. Damson’s expression changed abruptly, looking like she had just stepped in something unpleasant.

“That 'person'!” she said scornfully. “Mr. Smith-Mortimer was a wonderful man, but something rotten got into the branch of the family tree that produced the colonel. A Thoroughly Bad Lot.”

She enunciated the capitals quite clearly. I smiled at her firmness.

“Mrs. Damson”, Sherlock said, “although you may not have had any direct dealings with Mr. Smith-Mortimer, you are clearly a most observant lady. I would welcome any observations that you may have had on the last few months of your late employer’s life. In particular, anything that struck you as out of the ordinary.”

She thought for a moment.

“I am sure such gentlemen as yourself know the way the land lay as regards dear Mr. Smith-Mortimer and that rapscallion of a nephew of his”, she said. “As the cook, I saw little – but there was one strange thing, which concerned his food. Though I don’t see how it could help you at all.”

“Yet clearly you noticed it”, Sherlock smiled. “What was it?”

She looked embarrassed, before saying rather quietly, “the ketchup.”

“Pardon?” I asked. She reddened slightly.

“Mr. Smith-Mortimer always loved his that horrible brown ketchup, especially on fish and chips”, she said, looking as if she expected us to pour scorn on her suggestion. “Vile stuff! The shop sent a bottle of some other brand once, I remember, and he absolutely hated it! Yet four weeks before the end, he just went off it.”

“May I ask, did he have anything else instead?” Sherlock asked. 

“He had a slice of lemon for a couple of weeks, then he tried some red sauce with herbs in it, sir. Unfortunately he passed away before he could change his mind again.”

“Mrs. Damson”, Sherlock said with a smile, “thank you very much. That is exactly what I had hoped that you would say. You have been most helpful, and if I am able to bring this case to a successful conclusion, I shall communicate that fact to you here.”

We bowed ourselves away from the cook. Once we were on our way to our next destination, I asked Sherlock what he had meant.

“Think”, he said. “We know that Mr. Smith-Mortimer was virtually a prisoner in his own home in his last few weeks. I fully expected him to evince a sudden taste for lemon on his fish.”

He looked at us both as if it were obvious, which I found annoying because it most definitely was not!

+~+~+

Our second call of the day was to Miss Anne Bayley, housemaid to the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer. Her new post was working for an agency which organized the cleaning of certain businesses in the town and it was our good fortune that it was her half-day, so we were able to catch her at home. Her parents were a little alarmed at our arrival, but all was soon explained, although Miss Bayley shyly asked if they could remain for the interview, to which request Sherlock acceded.

“I would like to know more about your late employer, Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer”, Sherlock said. “In particular, what sort of person was he? Did he socialize much, perhaps?”

She looked surprised at that.

“Goodness me, no, sir”, she said firmly. “The only person he used to see at all apart from family was Mr. Benezet, who lived across the hill.”

I looked up at the curious expression. Miss Bayley explained.

“My late master's house, “Azkaban”, is on a hill some way back from the road”, she explained “The area is quiet enough, and the only other house you can see from its windows is “Lilyhurst”, Mr. Benezet’s place, which is on its own small hill opposite. There are trees along the side, and the road goes up and down quite a bit, so you can't see the neighbours' houses. He was a very nice man, Mr. Benezet; lived there with a friend of his, a Mr. Wallace. Both real gentlemen they were, so it was all quite proper.”

I thought wryly of Sherlock and a certain ruined barn on the Yorkshire moors. What we had got up to there had most definitely not been 'all quite proper'. The faint twitch at the corner of my friend's mouth told me that he was thinking much the same.

“Though I presume such contact stopped once Colonel Carruthers appeared on the scene?" he asked politely.

The maid had much the same look as her fellow servant had had a few hours before, as if scenting something unpleasant.

“That man”, she said bitterly, “made a most improper suggestion as to how I might keep my post, and poor Mr. Smith-Mortimer not even cold at the time. I told him exactly where he could shove it, if you’ll pardon my French.”

I liked the girl’s spirit.

“I had the good fortune to speak with Mrs. Damson earlier today”, Sherlock said. “She is doing well in her new post. I would like to ask you much the same question that I asked her. Did your employer do anything unusual, even slightly out of the ordinary, during the time that Colonel Carruthers was there?”

She frowned in memory.

“Yes, he moved”, she said.

“Moved?” Sherlock asked. She nodded.

“His bedroom was in the back of the house”, she said. “Very nice it was, overlooking the gardens and all, lovely warm room with a balcony. But he wanted to be moved to the front, and right up the East Tower.” She saw our confusion, and smiled. “I'm sorry sirs, I forget you haven't been there. The place was built like an old-style castle, and there was this round bit at each of the two front corners. He moved into the top floor of one of them, and we had to hoist his bed in there and set it up, right by the window. I heard his doctor told him that he needed lots of light for something wrong with his skin.”

That was possible, I thought. Some skin complaints responded well to copious amounts of sunlight.

“I personally thought that it was because he wanted to know if the colonel was coming, myself”, she sniffed. “A good view of the path up to the front door, and the stairs leading up creaked something awful, so there was no way that rat could drop in without his knowing he was coming. But the colonel hardly ever went up there. He just checked us all in and out, and made sure we weren't smuggling out messages or anything. He was horrid!”

Sherlock was about to thank her and leave when she suddenly spoke up again.

“Oh, and there was the mirror.”

“What about the mirror?” Sherlock asked.

“He broke a mirror that was hanging on the wall of his new room”, she said. “Seven years bad luck, I remember thinking, though the poor dear didn't have seven weeks left, as it turned out. I loaned him one of mine, a small hand-held thing that came with a stand.”

“Thank you, madam”, Sherlock said. “You have been most helpful. We shall not impinge on your goodwill any longer, and I promise that I shall communicate any findings I may make to you at this address.”

+~+~+

On the way back to our lodgings, Sherlock asked Mr. Singer where Colonel Carruthers was now.

“Still at “Azkaban””, he said morosely. “Probably sold off half the contents by now, just in case he loses. Poor Roger. Is there any hope, do you think?”

“It all depends on the butler, Jackson”, Sherlock said. “I see that he is with his master in London just now, so we shall see him immediately on our return there. Will you be accompanying us?”

“I think I shall”, he said. “I'm sure I can find rooms for a while.”

“Mrs. Harvelle may still have a spare room at 221B, as one of her tenants has moved in permanently with their relatives after the accident”, Sherlock offered. “Her rooms are excellent, and her cooking plain but copious.”

“Sounds my kind of gal!” Mr Singer beamed.

 _'Gal?'_ I thought. Honestly! Americans!

And how could I sense someone's disapproving look with his back to me?

+~+~+

We duly returned to Baker Street the following week. Fortunately the damage to both 221 and 221B had been minor, and whilst the builders were still working on 221A, they were only finishing the exterior paintwork. Inside the solid Georgian walls of our house, all was peaceful. 

We managed to arrange a meeting with the butler Jackson at once, and he came to Baker Street that evening. I was a little surprised that Mr. Singer had not yet joined us, his having gone down to talk with Mrs. Harvelle over some matter; securing a room, I supposed. Mr. Percy Jackson was about forty years of age, debonair and assured as only a good English butler can be. His expression on the mention of his late employer's nephew was one of utter disdain.

“First, I want to reassure you that everything you say within these walls will remain confidential”, Sherlock said. “I already know a great deal about what happened at “Azkaban”, but I need you to fill in several important gaps in that knowledge. I know, for example, that at some point in his last few weeks, the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer gave you a list. What was it about?”

The look on the butler's face was verging on startled at Sherlock's apparent omniscience. He hesitated before speaking.

“Mr. Smith-Mortimer wanted to return a book to the library, and for me to pick up three items from the grocery store”, he said at last.

I thought that rather curious. A list for just three items?

“Why did he not send the maid?” Sherlock asked.

The butler reddened.

“Colonel Carruthers insisted on searching anyone who left the building carrying anything, sir”, he said loftily. “Miss Bayley told him that if he laid one hand on her, she would scream, resign and fetch the police, so he sent her back inside. I offered to go in her place.”

“Do you remember the book title?” Sherlock asked.

The butler shook his head.

“It was something to do with Greek history, sir. I am afraid that is all I can recall. The library may have a record, I suppose.”

“Do you remember the items on the list?” Sherlock asked. 

“Perfectly, sir. Five red apples, two tins of custard powder and a bottle of brown HP sauce.”

“You went to the grocery store first, and then onto the library?”

The butler seemed to hesitate for some reason.

“Yes, sir”, he said.

“Did you meet anyone at either place?” Sherlock asked.

“I saw Mrs. Funnel from "Little Giddings" at the store, sir.”

Sherlock sat back and looked at our visitor. There was a pointed silence, then my friend smiled a slow smile.

“You are a good and faithful servant”, he said. “You have not told me several things, but I know all, now. Do not worry. All will be resolved, possibly even by the end of today, and if you leave me your master's address, I shall communicate developments to you there.”

The butler looked distinctly unsettled, but nodded. 

“Thank you, sir”, he said.

+~+~+

“My only regret”, Sherlock said later as he pulled out the extension to our table, “is that I am unable to confront that scoundrel of a colonel over his actions. Though he will learn of the failure of his schemes soon enough. Perhaps you had better go down and retrieve Mr. Singer.”

“Retrieve him from where?” I asked. Sherlock chuckled.

“He has spent the day talking with Mrs. Harvelle in her room”, he said. “It seems our 'foreign' friend may be on the point of becoming a more permanent fixture around here.”

I was saved a trip by a knock at our door, and I opened it to find Mr. Singer, Mr. Bradstreet and two other gentlemen standing outside. I ushered them in, and soon we were all seated around the table. Rather oddly, considering that it was mid-afternoon, Sherlock had lit the large table-lamp.

“Now”, he said, “we are gathered here today to hear the reading of a will, specifically the last will and testament of Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer. Mr. Benezet, Mr. Wallace, thank you both for returning to England at such short notice. If you please?”

He held out his hand expectantly to the shorter of the two unknown men, who hesitated only briefly before pulling open the briefcase that he was carrying and extracting a sheet of blue paper. Sherlock took it and placed it before a clearly bewildered Mr. Bradstreet. It was, I could see from the writing, the three items that Mr. Jackson had been sent out for.

“Sir, this is but a shopping-list!” the lawyer proclaimed. Sherlock smiled.

“Gentlemen, let me tell you a story”, he said. “It concerns an elderly man who is dying, and who is unfortunate enough to have fallen into the clutches of a grasping nephew. The current terms of the estate inheritance rules mean that the nephew has a chance of claiming that estate from the rightful heir, the man's adoptive grandson, but said nephew has an iron grip on the household, so there is no way that the dying man can do anything.”

“Or is there? He may be dying, but this man is much cleverer than his unwanted watchdog gives him credit for. He hatches a most cunning and excellent plan. First, he persuades his doctor that he needs the light, so he can be moved to the front of the house. From the description that we had, we know that his new sleeping quarters were cramped, cold and exposed, far inferior to his old bedroom, yet he wanted to be there. Why? My answer is simple. From that room, he could see directly to the house of his friends across the road. And if he could _see_ , he could also _signal_.”

I noticed how the two gentlemen had both gone red.

“He is very, very careful”, Sherlock went on. “He knows that if he asks for a mirror, his nephew might come to suspect, so he breaks the mirror in the room and borrows a replacement – one he can hold – from a maid. He monitors his nephew's movements so that he knows when he is in the house, and uses those times to flash heliographic messages across the valley. Sure enough, his friends spot the flashes, realize what is going on, and communication is established.”

“Time is short, and our man sends a message that, at a certain date in the near future, a piece of paper will be taken out of the house to a place where his friend and his friend's associate should be ready. But the man knows that any paper removed from the house is checked. So what does he do next?” Sherlock paused, and looked round at us all. “He changes his diet!”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Why?”

“It was the brown sauce that gave me the clue”, Sherlock said. “Or not so much the sauce, but the lemon that replaced it. Our dying man knows that whatever he writes down will be checked by his nephew. So he silently saves the lemon slices, and from them he squeezes enough lemon juice to create a form of what is called evanescent ink. He is careful not to underestimate his nephew, knowing that if he asks for a whole lemon from the kitchen, that too might rouse suspicions. ”

Sherlock took the letter and held it against the lamp. Slowly, faint brown markings began to appear between the blue ink, and the lawyer leant forward in anticipation.

“I can tell you, Mr. Bradstreet”, Sherlock said, “that English law has already had one instance of where a famous prankster wrote a final will in evanescent ink, and a judge decided that, as it was clearly his intent and had been both signed and witnessed by people who knew of its contents, it was legal. Ferrers versus Mobley, from 'Seventy-Two.”

“But the will was not witnessed!” I objected.

Sherlock gestured to the two strangers. 

“Mr. Benezet and Mr. Wallace knew to meet the butler in the library at a certain time on a certain date”, he said. “Jackson did not tell us, but he was smart enough to suspect his master's plan. He went along with it, and obligingly left the 'shopping list' in the library for our friends here to witness, who would then keep it safe. Unfortunately business called them away to Ireland just before their friend passed on. I believe that the colonel had an inkling that they knew something, or perhaps he was just making doubly sure, for they received at least two telegrams purporting to come from their friend saying that all was well. When I alerted these gentlemen to the truth, they rushed back at once.”

“The colonel could not have hoped to get away with it”, I said.

“He could have stripped the estate bare whilst the confusion continued”, Sherlock said. “Indeed, we will probably have to employ Bacchus' or Luke's offices to retrieve what he has doubtless stolen already.”

+~+~+

Annoyingly if predictably, Sherlock turned out to be correct. Colonel Carruthers had already enriched himself from the estate, but Mr. Lucius Holmes was able to claw back virtually all his ill-gotten gains, and young Roger Smith-Mortimer (as he chose to become) came into his full inheritance nine years later. The 'invisible will' also yielded small but welcome inheritances for the cook, the maid and the butler for services rendered. And the manservant, John Wishaw, also got something - a book on how to be a better servant!

+~+~+

Our next case would concern someone who knew exactly where a woman's place in society should be – and would end in me being covered in glitter!


End file.
